


Less Talk, More Action

by immortalitylost



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Blood, Blood Kink, Implied Murder, Knifeplay, M/M, Minor Character Death, murder boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:28:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23485321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immortalitylost/pseuds/immortalitylost
Summary: Billy throws his last pebble up at Stevie's dark window. The light snaps on after the tap.“Finally.”He draws a pretty red heart on the glass of the sliding door while he stands there; while he waits for Stevie to let him in already. Pops his finger in his mouth to wet the last of the blood on his fingertip while he watches the guy approach and draws the last feather on the arrow that pierces it. He’s a fuckin romantic, alright?“How did you do it?” Steve whispers when he opens the door, hooking a finger into Billy’s jeans and tugging him into the dark living room. "How'd you kill her?"
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 39
Kudos: 113
Collections: Round 2: Murder Boy/girl-friends





	Less Talk, More Action

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration: Murder Boyfriends  
> Sign: Aries

This is stupid.

Billy throws another rock at Pretty Boy’s window and it hits with a hard tap.

“Wake the fuck up fucker, come on.”

This is so goddamn stupid. Billy’s an idiot to be standin out here waitin on the guy. It’d been Steve’s idea, sure. It’d been his plan all along. But Harrington’s all talk. Billy knows that. Fuck. This shit’s gonna be way too much for the little rich boy and Billy’s gonna end up in prison. Watch. 

Is he doin all this to show off for the guy? Is he that fuckin stupid? What the hell is he thinking, following through on all Steve’ big talk?

He scoffs at that. Isn’t thinking—and isn’t that the problem? Where Harrington over here is all bark, well, Billy’s all bite. Always has been. And he’d been bored waiting. Talking. Planning. So here’s him, making a move.

Ball’s in your court now, Harrington.

He looks at the pebble in his palm—last one. The little rock is dark and red and slick—wet from the blood. Which is one more thing he’ll have to clean up; cover up. He makes a mental note; needs a shower first. Needs Stevie here to _wake the fuck up_ and let him in already.

He throws his last pebble. The light snaps on in Steve’s room. Oh, thank fuck.

“Finally.”

The window slides up—reflected blue glow of the pool off its glass yawning open onto blackness—then the light shines off of Steve’s pale face instead; highlights his unimpressed eyes and big don’t-give-a-fuck yawn.

“Billy?” He sweeps the bed-mussed hair back from his eyes. “You’re throwing— Why are you throwing pebbles at my window at…” He looks behind him uninterestedly before turning back, giving up. “What the hell's going on?”

“Let me in.” _Shut up Stevie; wake up. Wake up and look at me. Take a good long look at me, Stevie, c’mon._

Steve squints down at Billy. And maybe it’s the calm and the cold in Billy’s voice that gets Steve’s attention, where it’s usually all fire. Or maybe it’s just the way— Billy doesn’t give a shit. He can’t speak up, or he’ll blow up. Can’t move too quick or— He feels alive. Feels like his cells are about to fucking buzz apart on him. He takes a few slow steps forward and looks up at Steve.

What must the blood look like in the dark? In the unnatural blue light of the pool? God, what must he look like right now?

“Let me the fuck in or I’m breaking in.”

Steve stares down at him, silent for a moment, face serious; eyes running Billy’s body. Even from twenty feet away Steve gives Billy wood. The expression—fucking big dark eyes on Billy, who’d pictured this moment for— And the whole time he’d been killing her he’d been— He’d been here, in this moment. Here with Steve. Just like this. Why the fuck had he ever doubted the guy? Billy closes his eyes, works the slippery blood between his fingers. Talks just loud enough to make Steve work if he wants to hear. He can’t speak up. Won’t.

“Lemme in, Stevie.”

And Steve leans back into the shadows.

“Yeah,” the guy says, voice floating bodiless from the dark maw of his bedroom window. “Sure. Keep your shirt on.”

Billy feels down his mostly-bared chest with a slick slide at the mention of his shirt; while he waits here, still hard, still savoring that look. Unbuttons the last few survivors keeping it closed as he makes his way toward the sliding glass door and Steve. 

He draws a pretty red heart on that glass of the sliding door while he stands there; while he waits. Pops his finger in his mouth to wet the last of the blood on his fingertip while he watches Stevie approach and draws the last feather on the arrow that pierces it. He’s a fuckin romantic, alright?

Steve looks at his artwork—pauses with the locked door between them. Runs his long finger along the sharp arrow tip. Those dark eyes snap up to Billy’s and they’re blown out black and devouring every bite of Billy’s exposed wet red skin. And Billy wants in. Hits the glass, soft, just the once. Just a warning. Fucker better open up.

Steve smiles.

There’s a click and the door slides wide, quiet on its track.

“How did you do it?” Steve whispers as he hooks a finger into Billy’s jeans and tugs him into the dark living room.

“How would you do it?” It’s what Steve had asked at the beginning of February, three months ago—both of them camped out by the pool that even the most intrepid member of the polar bear club had long since abandoned. Fucking pansies. The water was warm on his feet and calves while his ass had been numb from the cold of the concrete. It was nice. Real nice. And Steve’d asked the question, sitting next to Billy and both of them waiting out the intermission on a tentatively shared joint, just drunk enough, high enough, both of them, to talk; to forget who they were talking to. And Billy had to think about what he’d just said; what had sparked the question. It’d been something about killing Neil—the kind of stupid-ass half-joke threat you make at stupid-ass parties when you’re talking too much and you’re shitfaced and some stupid-ass pretty boy just sits there and listens. That’s what had him talking too much, enough for Steve to ask. That look on Steve’s face like he cared. The empty yard around them and no one to show off for. The warm water swirling past his ankles. _How would you do it?_ Steve asked. _How?_

And Billy had looked at the guy when he heard the question; once he’d had time to process. Really looked. Had passed back the joint and had squinted his eyes and had smiled.

“Somethin real messy,” he’d said, just to test the guy. “Somethin worth all that prison time, you know? A nice memory to take with me.”

And Steve laughed. Billy’s stomach went warm with the sound of it; the thought that he’d caused it. His smile softened up a little, he could feel it. And he didn’t try to hide it. He was really fuckin high.

“What?” Billy said when the laughter didn’t stop, all leaned back on his arms and palms numbing now too on the cold concrete, head lolling.

“Nothing,” Steve said, then laughed again. “Just seems like it’d be funnier to send your _dad_ to prison, you know?”

Billy snorted, then he busted into a full laugh picturing it—couldn’t help it. “Jesus. Yeah, shit I’d place bets on how quick he turns bitch in there.” And Billy couldn’t stop laughing. He couldn’t. “Fuck, you’re— That’s—” His laughter turned silent; couldn’t get a breath to make sound. But he finally managed to suck one in; to try and explain somehow. “Just keep picturing my—ha—my fucking racist piece of shit pops being dicked down on the regular—” A pause. More laughter. “by some big tatooed black motherfucker, just—” They’re both laughing now. Hard. And their laughter is slow to wind down. But Billy feels loose and light and fuzzy afterward, his muscles warm at the unfamiliar work. Feels good.

“Hell,” Harrington said softly in the afterglow as he licked the tips of his pointer and thumb and put out the joint and Billy couldn’t stop staring. “Doesn’t sound like a bad time, to me.”

Billy’s eyes snapped up to Steve’s face from those slick wet ashy fingers. To Steve’s sly smile and challenging eyes. Hmmm.

 _How did you do it?_ Steve draws Billy in and against him now, long slim fingers at his neck, index playing at his earlobe and thumb resting at his Adam’s apple ildy; palm warming the tacky blood there.

“You really wanna know, don’t you?” Billy says, rumbles quiet through a grin.

Steve abandons Billy’s neck with his hand and undoes the button on Billy’s Jeans. Bites at the Adam’s apple his thumb had just left lonely and then pulls away, licking at the blood on his teeth after as he leads Billy by his zipper pull toward the nearest bathroom.

Billy kicks off his boots on the way, peels off socks by stepping on the toes as they move slowly through the dark quiet house. Goes to peel his shirt off and Steve clicks his tongue.

“Uh uh uh,” Steve says, waggling a fucking finger in front of Billy’s face. “No blood in the kitchen.”

Billy stops. Just stares at the guy. Just stares.

Then he wraps gory hands around Harrington’s upper arms and walks them the five steps back into the bathroom. Kicks the door closed and shoves Steve against it in the dark. Finds lips by fucking feel. Licks the guys protests up mid-word.

“Tell me,” Steve breathes into Billy’s open mouth. The fluorescents snap on and Steve pushes Billy backward so he almost falls into the tub. Then the guy moves in close. Slow. Whispering. Demanding. “Tell me what you did.”

His hands find Billy again.

Back in February, that party, that had been the first time he’d felt Steve’s hands on him. First time for a lot of things. First time he’s seen Steve’s room—he’d walked in like he owned the place, pissed that he’d had to wait out in the hall for five fucking minutes already trying not to draw suspicion. Pissed cause he couldn’t get the thought of the guys hand on his dick out of his head. _Be cool._ And Steve had touched him—pushed him back into the door as soon as it was closed. And then they’d kissed for the first time and Steve had tasted a little like beer and a little like weed smoke and a little like blood and Billy’d really fuckin liked it; the mix of it on his tongue.

Billy licked his lips, pausing to savor it.

“Would you really do it?” Steve had sighed into his neck, hips rocking, his hard cock grinding slow into Billy’s like fucking torture—fucking trapped in his tighest pair of jeans, too intense, just shy of painful and he’d scrabbled for his belt buckle. But Steve had knocked his hand away. Had slid down to his knees and Billy’d just about quit breathing. It hurt. It hurt to want him so bad and— 

“Tell me how you’d do it.” 

Steve mouthed Billy’s dick through the tough fabric. Looked up, hand dangling, fingers hooked in the waist of Billy’s pants—so close to that button, that zipper. Steve unclasped Billy’s belt and slowly drug it through the loops, never breaking eye contact. Those big dark fucking eyes, those— 

“Tell me how you’d do it while I suck you off,” Steve had said.

“I’ll show you, Stevie,” Billy says now, blood soaked and senses cranked to eleven in the bright white of the bathroom. 

He pulls out his knife. Rusted flakes of Karen Wheeler fall, scraped loose, to the white tile floor. His voice is a whisper; power thrumming under tight control woven through the waves of it. His words are more commands. “Get on your knees. I’ll show you just what I did. I’ll show you.”

Steve sinks down slow, big brown eyes on Billy. On the dark dirty knife in his hand.

“Strip, Stevie. _She_ did.”

And you better believe that Stevie does it. He’s dick out and kneeling on the cold tile floor in no time. And Billy cracks his neck; finally peels the sticky wet shirt from his back and lets it fall to the floor with a wet plop. The knife never leaves his hand. Steve’s eyes never leave the knife.

Billy pulls the belt from his jeans, nice and slow. _His_ eyes never leave Steve’s face.

“ _She_ got the pretty silk belt off her skimpy little robe,” Billy whispered. “Buuut, we’ll just have to improvise, won’t we?”

The worn leather of the belt molds nicely around Steve’s wrists, around one ankle. Perfect. And Steve’s chest is heaving. Steve’s chest is flushed; the pink of it blooming up and up and past the column of his neck up to his cheeks. Pretty. God. Steve’s jaw is loose and his mouth is wide and panting for Billy. His big brown blown-out eyes are locked on Billy’s face now as Billy towers over, staring down.

So much power here. So much trust. God. Billy sheds the last of his clothes; frees his aching dick. Feels that power Stevie’s offering.

“Open up.” His voice shakes against his control as he brings the knife up slow, lets the flat of it caress Steve’s cheek. “Want you to taste her.”

Steve opens his mouth like he’s waiting for communion.

The dirty knife blade slides along his tongue.

He’s perfect.

“Who’s he gonna kill?” Billy had asked, spent and fallen back to Earth and looking to break a tension that didn’t exist and was awkward in its absence.

He was sitting in Steve’s bed, propped against the headboard, and the sounds of the party had long since faded out and left them alone together. Billy still couldn’t believe Steve had just fucking left those animals down there to do whatever; wondered how someone with so much to lose could be so apathetic about it all. But only idly. He sat cleaning his fingernails with his pocket knife in the itchy uncomfortably comfortable silence after the action—and then Steve asked this question. _Who’s he gonna kill?_

And suddenly they’re back on Neil. Back to the questions that had led them to Steve’s bed.

Stevie-boy was a little fucked up, huh? 

Not that Billy didn’t like it. He grinned a little and let his hand fall to the mattress, his knife held slack, its weight comforting.

“How bout that little ex of yours?”

Billy looked down at Steve, smiled with teeth. He was only half joking. Steve gave a little puff of a laugh and rolled his eyes. But he kept waiting for an answer.

“We seriously talking about this?” Billy studied the guy. That game-for-it face. “Well alright then, Mr. Man-with-a-plan, who do _you_ think Neil should kill?”

“Oh,” Steve says. “I dunno. How about the woman he’s been having an affair with for the last few months?”

Billy frowned at the implications of those words.

“The who now?”

Steve smiled, and his smile had teeth to it, a match for Billy’s.

“We’re gonna make a great team, you and me.”

Now, Steve waits for the knife to pull slow back out of his mouth before he swallows, speaks.

“You know,” he says, breathless, “we were supposed to be a team.” He closes his eyes when the freshly-cleaned blade tip runs up under his jaw. “Billy,” he breathes, but he leaves it at that name—almost a moan—he doesn’t elaborate. And Billy smiles, content.

“First thing I did,” Billy whispers smoothly, “was tell her she was gonna be okay.”

He moves in close to breathe over Steve’s cheek.

“Shhhh shh shh shh,” he says, shushing Steve’s waiting silence. “You’re gonna be okay. Be real good for me and you’ll get through this just fine. Thaaaats it. Good girl.”

A hard breath comes out of Steve at that.

Billy moves behind Steve, tapping the guy’s shoulder thoughtfully with the flat of the blade as he goes. The drying blood on Billy’s skin makes him feel tight and itchy and mean, but the way that Stevie is knelt down in front of him like this, all docile, balmed any annoyance.

Oh, and he looks good like this. So wrong like this. Playing nice for Billy like he is; playing submissive. He completes his slow admiring circle, dragging the tip of the knife over Steve’s exposed collar bone.

He lunges forward, crouching, swinging the knife in fast and eyes locked in on Stevie’s face. Watching for a reaction.

The tip stops abruptly an inch from Steve’s abdomen. Steve never fucking flinches. He never flinches. Good boy.

Billy flips the knife in his hand and rubs circles on Steve’s abdomen with the butt of the handle, massages it just below the ribs. He leans his forehead into Steve’s and rests it there, breathing in the guy’s scent; his panting wet breaths. Then he digs the knife handle in hard, smiles at the grunt from Steve, the want in it; moves down to brush cheeks, mark him, raking stubble over Steve’s soft skin; to move past and nip at those two little moles under the guy’s neck, kiss them gentle after. He lets up on the knife.

“She was quiet, too, Stevie. Didn’t make a peep behind the duct tape. Not one. Except when she realized that she was gonna die. She made this little whimper then, that—” He sucks in a breath through his teeth. Bites his lip, remembering.

Steve’s neck is bared to him, blooming open under Billy’s humid breath like a hothouse plant, his words carried over it. So Billy drags his lips up the exposed column to nip at the skyward jaw. To drag it down between finger and thumb and look into those dark eyes. He raises the sharp clean blade up to Steve’s jaw, just at the jugular.

“I didn’t have all night, Stevie.” Billy draws the blade in a slow light drag across Steve’s neck. “I saw an opportunity and I...well I had to take it, you know me. Had to rush the job a bit though….”

He digs the knife tip in at the very end for a light nick. A love bite. And Steve hisses in a breath, leans his head into Billy’s shoulder and warms it with a needy groan.

“So next time,” Steve pants— Billy grabs up his hair and yanks his head back, watches the Adam’s apple bob on a swallow through the taught skin of Steve’s neck and then leans in, licks away the stark stripe of Steve’s blood. Mmm.

“You taste better than her,” Billy whispers. Steve huffs, hips bucking forward.

Then Billy’s shoved backward out of nowhere. He falls. Hard.

He finds himself on his back looking up at Steve, a dull ache in his skull from where it’d bounced up off the tile floor.

Steve holds the knife in one hand. The belt he’d been bound by dangles loose in the other. A mocking half grin lifts his cheek.

“Next time, I won’t need the play by play, though.” He tugs Billy closer by the ankle then leans down over him, the knife balanced light in his hand, its tip moving in to just touch Billy’s naked bloody chest. “Will I?”

He digs in. Raises blood. Shit, Stevie. Billy hums out a moan.

“Because we’ll be a team, next time. Right?”

Blood wells in the dip the knife tip is pressing into Billy’s flesh as Steve sinks it deeper.

Billy smiles.

“Right, baby.”

Steve grins back and lets up the pressure on the knife. He dips a pinky into the well of fresh blood and pops it in his mouth as he rises.

“Mmm,” he says, grin full of Mischief. He holds out a hand to Billy. “Love you.”

Another first. Billy feels the words sink in deep and do their damage, but can’t reply. Can’t. Not now. Not like this.

Billy hums instead and smiles all cocky and takes the offered hand and is halfway up before he’s unceremoniously dropped, Steve leaning down over him still gripping him palm-to-palm. And the scene is real familiar. And real strange, too. If this motherfucker tells him to plant his feet...swear to God.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Steve says, low and husky. “Wouldn’t want you to miss the show.”

It’s enough to get Billy hustling.

The police lights bounce red and blue off houses that should be dark at this time of night but are glowing instead—the residents up and plastered to windows. A growing crowd mills around the police tape perimeter.

“Here we go,” Steve whispers into Billy’s ear, fingers ghosting Billy’s palm and no one in the crowd the wiser in the excited jumbled press to see something they shouldn’t. Billy grabs Steve’s fingers up and squeezes briefly, all the answer he needs to give. They’ve staked out the front row for this particular attraction. They both stare on with the quiet intensity of hunting lions stalking an antelope. The soft backs of their hands are keeping contact.

Neil exits the house, manhandled by two officers. He struggles groggily against their grip, though he’s still pretty out of it from the drugs Billy had slipped him.

And the cop car Neil’s shoved in is parked not five feet away from them. The guy catches sight of them too, finally, after squirming around in the cramped back seat to right himself. He catches sight of them and Billy smiles. He grabs Steve’s hand up, their pressed palms blocked from the crowd behind by their melded sides. Billy holds their clasped hands up so his fucking dad can see real good. Get a real good gander. And his smile only grows wider at the dawning look of horror that’s taking over Neil’s features.

Neil looks like he remembers. Remembers that Beer Billy had brought him, maybe, and how it’d been open. Remembers how tired he got after, maybe. Drugged. Remembers all the times he’d hit Billy. Hopefully. All those times he’d called Billy a faggot. Tossed around Billy’s mom and made her run off. Had ruined Billy’s life too many times and in too many ways to count. Was maybe realizing now why he’d woken up smeared in blood with his hand wrapping a knife handle. Not _the_ knife. A twin knife. All part of the plan.

Billy’s knife sits clean and dirty at home, in Steve’s bedroom. He’s sentimental.

“Fuck you,” he mouths at Neil through his smile. And he leans into Steve and whispers, lips brushing the guy’s ear—feels Steve smile at the secret. Knows he’ll keep it. Knows he can trust him. And next time. Next time. Things will be perfect.

Next time.

“Next time,” Steve says, barely a breath against Billy’s ear. “It’s my turn.”

“Sure,” Billy says, “Next one’s all yours, babe. I like to watch.”

Billy drops Steve’s hand and they pull apart, reluctant. They turn together to wade back through the crowd, to wind their way through the night back to Steve’s big empty house. To be alone together.

“Not your babe, by the way,” Steve says after a ways walking, shoving at Billy then kicking a can down the road. Then smiling.

“Sweety?” Billy tries.

“Fuck you, sugar tits,” Steve replies. “Think again.”

“Whatever, princess. Love you,” Billy says, finally, fishing a smoke out to share to avoid Steve’s gaze that’s sure to be on him.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I fuckin love you too, asshole.” And of course it’s no big deal. Steve comes in close again, cuddling up, safe to in the dark like this, and Billy lets him. They belong in the dark like this.

“Now share,” Steve says. He holds out an imperious hand for the smoke.

And Billy laughs. Impatient little shit.

God, he loves the guy.


End file.
